There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind--wrapped tight like skin. Then there is the loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive. On its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.

Intimacy is extremely important to me and I want it to be extremely important to the readers.

The peace I am thinking of is the dance of an open mind when it engages another equally open one.

I don't wait to be struck by lightning and I don't need certain slants of light in order to be able to write.

Love just seems to make life not just livable, but a gallant, gallant event.

Literature, it seems to me, is wisdom.

I think some aspects of writing can be taught. Obviously, you can't teach vision or talent. But you can help with comfort.